The Dragon in the Sword (6 page)

No amount of effort brought me further illumination and I deliberately dismissed the problem as we followed Mopher Gorb, Binkeeper of the
Frowning Shield
(evidently the name of this ship), into the dark, stinking bowels of his home hull.

As we walked up the gangplank the smell was so bad that I was close to vomiting, but I controlled myself. There were lights burning within the vessel. Below our feet were slats and through the gaps in these I could see further down into the ship where naked people ran to and fro tending to what I assumed were the rollers on which the great vessel moved. I could make out a series of catwalks, some of metal, some of wood and some which were mere ropes stretched between other gangways. I heard cries and shouts above the slow rumble of the rollers and assumed these men and women must be oiling and cleaning the machinery as it turned. Then we had advanced up another flight of wooden steps and were standing in a large hall full of weapons and armour and tended by a sweating individual of some six and a half feet tall and so fat it seemed a miracle he could move at all.

“You’ve exchanged names and so are welcome on board the
Frowning Shield
, gentlemen. I am called Drejit Uphi, Chief Weapon Master of our hull. I see you are bearing two of our blades and would be obliged for their return. You, too, Mopher. And the rest. All blades called in. And all armour returned, too. What of the rest? Must we send heifers to unshell ’em?”

Mopher seemed shamefaced. “Aye. We attacked these guests, thinking they were marsh vermin. They convinced us to the contrary. Umift, Ior, Wetch, Gobshot, Pnatt and Strote need stripping. They’re all fuel now.”

This reference to fuel gave me some notion of why the smoke from the chimneys was particularly hideous and why everything aboard seemed covered in a slightly sticky, oily film.

Drejit Uphi shrugged. “My congratulations, sirs. You are good fighters. These warriors were seasoned and clever.” He spoke as politely as he could but it was plain he was strongly displeased, both with Mopher and with us.

They did not think to take von Bek’s pistol and so I felt a little more secure as, when Mopher had stripped off his armour to reveal dirty cotton jerkin and breeches, we followed the Binkeeper into the upper levels of the city-ship.

The whole hull was crowded, very much like a medieval town, with people in every alley, gangway and boardwalk, carrying burdens, calling to each other, bartering, gossiping and arguing. They were all dirty, all very pale and somewhat sickly-looking and, of course, no piece of clothing was free of the ash which fell everywhere and clogged throats as thoroughly as it covered our skins. By the time we had come out into the open night air again and were crossing a long bridge over what on land I might have thought to be a market square we were both of us wheezing and had streaming noses and eyes. Mopher recognised what was happening to us and laughed. “Sooner or later your body gets used to it,” he said. “Look at me! You’d hardly guess I had half the ship’s carrion in my lungs by now!”

And he laughed again.

I clung to the rail of the bridge as it swayed in the wind and shivered from the motion of the ship which was still on the move. Overhead in the yards I saw figures constantly at work while others swarmed up and down the rigging, all illuminated by sudden gouts of fiery ash from the chimneys. The larger pieces, I now saw, were caught in wire nets surrounding the chimneys and either gathered around the sides at the top or fell back in again.

Von Bek shook his head. “Squalid and ramshackle though the whole thing is, it’s a miracle of crazed engineering. One must suppose it’s steam which powers all this.”

Mopher had overheard him. “The Folfeg are famous for their scientific devices,” he said. “My grandfather was a Folfeg, of The Wounded Crayfish anchorage. He it was made the boilers of the great
Glowing Mosslizard
, who sought to follow Ilabarn Kreym over the Edge. The hull returned, as all of the Maaschanheem know, without a single crew member left alive—yet her engines had not failed. Those engines brought her back to The Wounded Crayfish. In the days of the Wars between the Hulls she conquered fourteen rival anchorages, including The Torn Banner, The Drifting Fern, The Lobster Set Free, The Hunting Shark and The Broken Pike, and all those hulls besides.”

Von Bek was more curious than I was. “How do you name your anchorages?” he asked. “I take it these are the strips of firm land between which your hulls sail.”

Again the Binkeeper was confused. “Just so, sir. The anchorages are named for what they most closely resemble upon the map. How the land is shaped, sir.”

“Of course,” said von Bek, replacing his handkerchief over his mouth so that his voice was muffled. “Forgive my naïveté.”

“You may ask us any question here,” said Mopher, trying to remove the frown from his hairy features, “for we have exchanged names and only what is Sacred may not be communicated to you.”

Now we had come to the end of the bridge and reached a portcullis, all iron lattice through which we could see a shadowy hall in which lanterns gleamed. At Mopher’s shout the massive gate was raised and we passed through. The hall was more elaborately decorated and moreover I now realised that the portcullis was covered in fine gauze. Very little of the ash had actually permeated this part of the ship.

Now a trumpet sounded (a somewhat unpleasant squawk) and from a dimly lit gallery above our heads a voice cried:

“Hail to our honoured guests. Let them feast tonight with the Baron Captain and keep passage with us until the Massing.”

We could see little of the speaker, but apparently he was simply a herald. Now down a wide open staircase on the other side of the hall bustled a short, stocky individual with the face of a prizefighter and the demeanour of an aggressive man who seeks to control a normally short temper.

He held a skull-cap across a chest covered in the most elaborate red, gold and blue brocade and on his thick legs were flaring breeches weighted at the bottoms with heavy balls of differently coloured felt. On his head was one of the strangest hats I had ever seen in all my rangings through the multiverse, and it was no wonder he did not choose to use this for the ritualistic covering of the heart. The hat was at least a yard high, very much like an old-fashioned stovepipe but with a narrower brim. I guessed that it was stiffened from inside, yet nonetheless it tended to lean wildly in more than one direction and it was coloured a garish mustard yellow so bright I feared it would blind me.

The owner of this costume plainly felt it to be not only perfectly congruous but rather impressive. As he reached the bottom of the stairs he paused, made a small gesture to acknowledge us, then turned to Mopher Gorb. “You’re dismissed, Binkeeper. And as I’m sure you’ll be aware you’ll be responsible for stocking no more bins this tour. It was poor judgment to mistake our guests for marsh vermin. And you lost good hands as a result.”

Mopher Gorb bowed low. “I accept this, Baron Captain.”

The ship suddenly shuddered and seemed to moan and complain deep within itself. For a few moments we all clutched for whatever support was available until the motion calmed. Then Mopher Gorb continued. “I give over my bins to the one who would succeed me and pray that they catch good vermin for our boilers.”

Although only dimly aware of what he meant I found myself again close to vomiting.

Mopher Gorb slunk back through the portcullis which was wound down rapidly behind him and the Baron Captain strutted towards us, his great hat nodding on his head.

“I am Armiad-naam-Sliforg-ig-Vortan, Baron Captain of this hull, accountant to The Clutching Hand. I am deeply honoured to welcome you and your friend.” He was addressing me directly, a somewhat unpleasantly placatory note in his voice. I was evidently surprised by his response and he smiled. “Know you, sir, that the names you gave my Binkeeper were but a few of your titles, as I understand, for you would not demean yourself to offer your true name and rank to such as he. However, as a Baron Captain I am permitted, am I not, to address you by the name known best by us, at least, in this our Maaschanheem.”

“You know my name, Baron Captain?”

“Oh, of course, your highness. I recognise your face from our own literature. All have read of your exploits against the Tynur raiders. Your quest for the Old Hound and her child. The mystery you solved concerning the Wild City. And many, many more. You are quite as much a hero amongst the Maaschanheemers, your highness, as you are amongst your own Draachenheemers. I cannot tell you how deeply glad I am to be able to entertain you, without any wish for publicity for this hull or myself. I would like this clear that we are only too honoured to have you aboard.”

I could barely control my smile at this unpleasant little man’s awkward and somewhat disgusting attempts at good manners. I decided to take a haughty tone, since he expected it of me.

“Then how, sir, do you call me?”

“Oh, your highness!” he simpered. “But you are Prince Flamadin, Chosen Lord of the Valadek, and a hero throughout the Six Realms of the Wheel!”

It seemed I had learned my name at last. And once again, I feared, more was expected of me than I cared or desired.

Von Bek was sardonic. “You hid this great secret from me, also, Prince Flamadin.”

I had already explained to him my circumstances. I glared at him.

“Now, good gentlemen, you must be my guests at a feast I have had prepared for you,” said Baron Captain Armiad, pointing with his skull-cap to the far end of the hall, one wall of which was slowly rising up to reveal a brilliantly lit room in which was set a great oaken table already covered in a variety of hideous-looking food.

Again I avoided von Bek’s eye and prayed that it would be possible, somehow, to find at least a morsel or two that was to some degree palatable.

“I understand, good gentlemen,” said Armiad as he led the way to our seats, “that you have chosen to take passage on our hull and that you journey to the Massing.”

Since I was more than curious to discover the nature of this Massing I nodded gravely.

“I must take it that you are upon a fresh adventure,” said Armiad. His huge hat waved dangerously as he seated himself beside me. Although not quite as obnoxious, his smell was not greatly different from his hirelings.

I knew that this was a man who not only disdained good manners as a rule but was scarcely familiar with the ordinary rituals involved. Moreover I believed that, if he did not think it served his purposes much better to entertain us as guests, he would as cheerfully have slit out throats and fed our corpses to his bins and boilers. I felt relieved that he had recognised me for this Prince Flamadin (or had mistaken me for him!) and resolved to accept as little of his hospitality as possible.

As we ate I asked him how long he thought it would take before we reached the Massing.

“Another two days, no more. Why, good sir, are you anxious to be there before all are assembled? If so, we can increase speed. A simple matter of mechanical adjustments and fuel consumption…”

I shook my head hastily. “Two days is excellent. And does everyone attend this Massing?”

“Representatives of all Six Realms, as you know, your highness. I cannot speak, of course, for any unusual visitors to our Massing. We have held it, as you know, in the Maaschanheem whether the Realms come together or not. Every year, since the Armistice, when the Wars between the Hulls were finally resolved. There will be many coming, all under truce, naturally. Even marsh vermin, those horrid renegades without hull or anchorage, could come and not go to the bins. Yes, there will be a fine company, all in all, your highness. And I shall make sure you have a vantage place amongst the most privileged hulls. None would dare refuse you. The
Frowning Shield
is yours!”

“I am greatly obliged to you, Baron Captain.”

Servants came and went, putting dreadful dishes under our noses and these, it seemed, it was politic to refuse for none seemed angered. I noted that, like me, von Bek was making do with a salad of relatively tasty marsh-plants.

Von Bek spoke for the first time. “Forgive me, Baron Captain. As his highness has no doubt indicated, I have a condition which has robbed me of much of my memory. What other realms than this one do you speak of?”

I admired his directness and his method of explaining himself so that I should not be embarrassed.

“As his highness knows,” said Armiad with barely restrained impatience, “we are Six Realms, the Realms of the Wheel. There is Maaschanheem, which is this Realm. There is Draachenheem, which is where Prince Flamadin rules (when not adventuring elsewhere!),” a nod to me, “and Gheestenheem, Realm of the Cannibal Ghost Women. The other three Realms are Barganheem, claimed by the mysterious Ursine Princes, Fluugensheem, whose people are guarded by the Flying Island, and Rootsenheem, whose warriors have skins of glowing blood. There is also, of course, the Realm of the Centre itself, but none comes from there nor ventures there. We call it Alptroomensheem, Realm of the Nightmare Marches. Are you fully reminded now, Count von Bek?”

“Thoroughly, Baron Captain. I thank you for your trouble. I have a poor memory for names at the best of times, I fear.”

In some relief, or so it seemed to me, the Baron Captain turned his pugnacious, barely polite eyes towards me again. “And shall your betrothed meet us at the Massing, your highness? Or does the Princess Sharadim remain to guard the Realm while you go adventuring?”

“Aha,” I said, taken aback and unable to disguise my shock. “The Princess Sharadim. I cannot say as yet.”

And somewhere, even now, in the back of my mind I could hear that desperate chanting.

SHARADIM! SHARADIM! THE FIREDRAKE MUST BE FREED!

It was at that point that I claimed weariness and begged Baron Captain Armiad that I be shown to my bed.

Once in my quarters I was joined by von Bek, whose rooms were next to mine. “You seem unwell, Herr Daker,” he said. “Are you afraid you’ll be found out in your deception and that the real prince will turn up at this Massing of theirs?”